


To Memories, To Old Loves

by redstaronmyshoulder (CaptainAmelia22)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Guilt, Old Friends, Past Relationship(s), Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 17:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20952146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainAmelia22/pseuds/redstaronmyshoulder
Summary: Hawke arrives at Skyhold and as usual, ends up in the tavern. Soon her night is full of reminiscing with old friends. And new.





	To Memories, To Old Loves

Skyhold is quiet. Solemn. 

News of Corypheus’ return and the possible corruption of the Grey Wardens travels like wildfire through the Keep. Hushed voices fall silent every time Hawke appears and she grimaces, running nervous fingers through her sloppily shorn hair. 

It doesn’t take long for everyone to hear the tail of the Champion and her involvement with Corypheus. She and Varric had helped free the Darkspawn magister after all. And now he’s running about Thedas trying to murder tiny Dalish women and bringing about the end of humanity. 

She sighs and glances over her shoulder in the direction of the Great Hall.

The Inquisitor is tucked away with her advisers and a few of her more steady Inner Circle. Left to her own devices, Marian Hawke, former Champion of Kirkwall, wanders the crumbling fortress the Inquisition has claimed and tries to remain calm. 

Tries and fails. 

As per usual, when things seem like they can’t go further to shit, she ends up in the tavern. 

“Pitcher of your darkest ale, barkeep,” she drawls, sideways smirk curling her lip as she slides a tarnished gold sovereign across the scarred bar towards the sullen dwarf glaring at her. “Thanks.” 

He snorts but tucks the coin away, turning to a keg stamped with a Ferelden brewery’s sigil. She cocks a brow at that, noting the impressive quality of the various types of alcohol tucked away behind his bar. 

This is definitely not the Hanged Man. 

Rolling her eyes she tucks the pitcher close, snags a bowl of nuts and seeds laying abandoned on one of the empty tables and makes her way deeper into the tavern, as far from the bard plucking thoughtfully on her lyre as she can get. At this late hour the tavern is relatively empty. 

The massive Qunari she’d been introduced to earlier is set up on the opposite wall with his motley crew, their voices raised in a rowdy marching tune that drowns out the bard’s strumming. A few of Sister Nightingale’s scouts sit clustered around a map a few tables down, their accented voices pitched too low for Hawke to hear. 

She saw the crude lines of Crestwood village drawn there though. 

Doesn’t take a genius to figure out what Leliana’s people are planning. 

Marian Hawke sighs, sets her booted feet solidly upon the chair opposite of her and takes a long pull from her nearly overflowing mug, eyes closing in bliss as cool beer washes over her parched tongue. 

“Ah, that’s good,” she sighs, rolling her head back on her shoulders and slouching deep in her seat. 

The road to Skyhold had been long and guilt had ridden on her shoulder the entire time. The thought of who she’d left behind to come here…

The guilt of what she’d set loose upon the world?

Those were not the best travel companions to have. 

She winces, remembering parting words, spat bitterly as she shoved clothes in her saddle bags and strapped her sword to her back. 

You can’t go, Hawke! The Inquisition has been looking for you! Varric says it isn’t safe. 

The memory of Anders’ voice, rough with exhaustion and pain makes her wince now and she downs the ale with desperate vigor, throat working. 

I have to go Anders. I have to fix this. It’s my mess, after all, she’d said, her voice calm despite the terror and worry and overwhelming guilt she’d been drowning in since news of Haven had reached their backwater hovel. Bethany, her own face pale and drawn, had winced at the determination she’d heard in her voice. 

The finality. 

Let her go Anders, her little sister had said, her hand settling on Anders’ bicep, squeezing lightly when the taller man had sought to pull free of her. We’re no help to her like...like this. 

Like this. 

Hawke almost snarls into her beer at the thought of her sister, dying despite everything. A slow, agonizing death. 

She’d left them to the Calling. Left them to the slow, inexorable rot of the Taint. Aveline had sworn to take care of them for her. Sworn to keep them safe and out of Orlais. But that didn’t change the fact that Anders and Bethany were her responsibility-her only family left. 

Abandoned, deep in the Anderfels.

The last of her pitcher dribbles pathetically into her cup and she curses softly, the faint hint of a buzz warming her limbs and making them just a bit too sloppy for walking the few feet to the bar and sullen barkeep. 

“Rough night, huh?”

She stills, shoulders hunching as a familiar voice breaks her still bubble of guilt and sadness. 

“Varric,” she sighs, eyes closing as a new wave of guilt begins to wash over her. “Thought you were in a meeting with the Inquisitor and her advisers.” 

Varric Tethras snorts and drags the chair her feet rest on out from under the table, ignoring her wince when the chair legs scrape loudly across the rough-hewn wooden floor. Her boots thud to the floor, jarring the table but she makes no move to straighten in her chair. 

“I was,” the dwarf-her oldest friend-says, lips curling in a snide smirk she knows very well. She winces again and glances at the bar. “So Crestwood, huh. Who do you have tucked up in those hills. Wouldn’t be Sunshine, now would it?” 

Light blue eyes spark at the old nickname for Bethany and Hawke sighs. 

“She wouldn’t take kindly to that name these days, Varric,” she sighs, finally making eye contact with the barkeep and raising her pitcher. He rolls his eyes but waves a hand in her direction when he catches sight of Varric. “None of us are much for bright and cheery, anymore.” 

Varric’s eyes narrow. “Hear the Wardens are helping Corypheus with something, Hawke,” he says, reaching over to pop a handful of nuts into his mouth. “Your sister isn’t caught up in it, is she?”

His serious tone catches her attention and she straightens a bit in her chair. 

“Of course not!” she says, horror coloring her words. “What kind of older sister do you think I am?” She hesitates, snorts and raises her hand. “Don’t answer that, please. I might cry if you do.” 

Varric chuckles, some of the tension easing from his shoulders and he tosses a sovereign to the keep when the man finally appears at the table with a brimming pitcher and extra mug. 

“I wouldn’t dream of bringing up your family drama, Hawke,” he says, smirk growing when she groans and shoots a rude gesture in his general direction. “I’ll leave that for the sequel.” 

“Ugh, that book,” she groans, running her hand through her hair and taking a hasty gulp of her ale. “You know, Anders actually burned the copy you sent us? Didn’t even look at the note you wrote-which was very nice, by the way. Just set it on fire right there in our room.” 

Varric grins. “Which is why I sent you a second copy,” he says, chuckling as he pours himself some more ale. “One without the cover art. Did you like it?” 

Hawke chuckles, a mischievous light sparking in her bright blue eyes that calls to mind late Wicked Grace nights in the Hanged Man. 

“I particularly liked the sex scenes,” she drawls, nudging him with the toe of her boot. “Very detailed. However did you get them so right?” 

Varric just raises his brows and shrugs. “Just an eye for details,” he says, scratching idly at his bared chest. “And knowing just the right kind of alcohol to get your partner’s tongue to loosen.” 

Hawke laughs at that, the warm burn of alcohol loosening her limbs and she sprawls once more in her chair. 

“Remember the day we were hunting those slavers on the Wounded Coast and you and Isabela began drafting a particular raunchy sex scene?” She pops a nut between her lips and chuckles. “I thought Fenris was going to have an apoplectic fit right there. Or throw himself into the Sea.” 

Varric grins into his beer. “He turned so red I thought his tattoos were glowing. Poor kid. Hear he and Bela are wreaking havoc up the coastline, taking down slave ships headed for the Imperium.” 

Hawke nods and pats one of her belt pouches. “Bela writes sometimes,” she says, her voice pitched low and she glances around the mostly empty tavern. Their pirate friend was wanted in several Free Marches ports and the bounty on her head in Tevinter had grown so high, most had doubts the Imperium would even be able to pay it. Still, talking about the Captain of the Siren’s Call in mixed company could call to question some of Hawke’s loyalties. 

Not that that had ever stopped her or her companions in the past. 

She chuckles. “She says Fenris has grown quite fond of the hat she bought him the last time they went to Rivain.” 

“That’d be a sight to see,” Varric snorts. “Broody in a big hat.” 

Hawke shakes her head. Then sighs. 

“I miss them, sometimes,” she murmurs, hunching her shoulders over her still full ale cup. “Especially being here and seeing you and the Inquisitor. It’s...well, it’s bittersweet.” 

Varric sighs. 

“Kirkwall was a mess, Hawke,” he says, reaching out to pat her hands. “But it was our mess, wasn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” she sniffs. She takes a deep breath and rolls her shoulders. “Aveline told me to tell you that you still owe her 20 sovereigns from our last Wicked Grace night, by the way. She said if I didn’t come back with your gold, she’d come here herself and box your ears.”

Varric grins. “Now that’d be a sight to see, wouldn’t it?” he says, chuckling. “Cullen would recruit her immediately. She’d have every Inquisition soldier twitching and jumping for orders!” 

Hawke smirks. Then rolls her eyes. “Can’t believe you have Rutherford commanding the Inquisitor’s army. That washed up Templar-”

“He’s all right,” Varric interrupts, waving her words away and reaching for the pitcher. “Bit of a stick up his ass, like always. But the Inquisitor trusts him. And the Seeker vouches for him…”

Hawke’s eyes narrow. “The ‘Seeker’,” she repeats, making a mental note of the way his voice had softened a bit on Cassandra Pentaghast’s honorific. “That very same Seeker who had you chained to a chair for hours, interrogating you about my whereabouts so she could recruit me to lead her Inquisition. That Seeker?”

Amazingly, the dwarf has the grace to blush. 

And Hawke starts to laugh, burying her face in her hands. 

“Maker’s balls, Varric,” she chokes, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. “You’re falling for Cassandra fucking Pentaghast, aren’t you?!”

Varric rolls his eyes and smacks her arm. “Oh shut up, Hawke,” he sighs. “Her Inquisitorialness told us to get along or she’d toss us into Lake Calenhad, so I’m trying to be an adult and work with the woman.” He snorts. “Something you wouldn’t understand, at all.” 

She peeks at him through her fingers, still chuckling at the sight of his chest blazing red in the candlelit tavern. 

“Andraste’s tits,” she says, wiping some of her mirth away. “I always did think you were a bit of a masochist, Varric Tethras. What is it about you and women who can wipe the floor with you? Bianca and now...The Seeker.” 

To his credit, Varric doesn’t look extremely uncomfortable with this line of talk. He simply smiles a tiny, private smile to himself and swirls his beer thoughtfully in its cup. 

“So how’s Anders?” he asks, finally, once some of Hawke’s snickering and snide muttering has died down. “Still got Justice nipping at his heels? Itching to blow up a few more Chantry mothers?” 

Hawke sighs, ruffles her fingers through her hair once more and drains the last of her beer. 

“I told him if I was going to keep him safe, keep him out of the Chantry’s grip, that he’d have to leave Justice,” she says, her voice only a tad bitter. “I couldn’t-I couldn’t handle anymore of that-thing-looking at me through Anders’ eyes.” She shrugs and cups her chin in the palm of her hand. “So he exorcised Justice-with the help of a few Wardens we were traveling with at the time-and Justice was...gone.” 

Something shifts in her gaze at that and Varric cocks a brow. 

“As easy as that, huh?” he asks, narrowing his gaze when Hawke’s lips twist in a small grimace. 

She opens her mouth, probably to make a sarcastic comment but then someone else clears their throat and a new chair is dragged up beside their table. 

“Sharing war stories from Kirkwall you two?” 

Hawke jumps, dragging her gaze from Varric’s and meets the sharp green eyes of Inquisitor Kira Lavellan. 

The Dalish woman is grinning at her, the trailing, faded green lines of her vallaslin crinkling at the corners of her eyes and her auburn hair twists in loose waves down her back. 

“Just reliving the glory days, your Inquisitorialness,” Varric quips, chuckling when Hawke rolls her eyes and snorts into her beer. 

He pours a measure of ale from their pitcher into the Inquisitor’s glass and leans back in his chair, resting his folded hands across his belly. 

“We sure did have some interesting times in Kirkwall,” he muses. 

Lavellan raises a brow, tosses her ale back and settles in her chair, obviously preparing for a long night of storytelling.

Hawke’s already high opinion of the woman grows even higher at that. 

“Oh?” she says, her lilting accent washing over them and her green eyes sparkle with a sense of humor Hawke finds dangerously familiar. “Mind sharing a few?” 

Varric chuckles, shares a look with Hawke and then beckons the barkeep over, preparing to order another pitcher of ale for his audience. 

“Hawke, remember that particular cave system we were trolling through, somewhere under the Sundermount?” he asks, blue eyes sparkling when his old friend groans. 

“Oh no, Varric,” she shakes her head and points an imperious finger at him. “Not that one.”

He chuckles and glances at Lavellan, just as another pitcher of ale is left at their table. 

“We were looking for some ancient book Anders was sure was tucked away in a forgotten dwarven grotto,” he supplies. “He, Fenris and I drug our dear Champion out of bed that morning and went up into the hills.” 

“Spiders,” Hawke moans, burying her face in her hands. “Spiders, everywhere.” 

“The size of mabari war hounds. Proper war hounds,” Varric supplies, chortling now. “Hawke actually screamed.” 

Lavellan laughs, reaching out to pat the other woman’s hand. “I’m sure we’ve all been there a few times, Hawke,” she says, green eyes sparkling with humor. 

Hawke snorts. “We didn’t even get the blasted book. A spider caught Fenris in its web and he went down and then Anders got caught in a trap...It was a disaster really.”

“Most of our adventures were,” Varric sighs, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye and pouring another glass of ale. “There was a time something went right though…”

Hawke leans back in her chair, content for now to listen to Varric spin his tales-with the occasional clarification on her part-and revels for at least one night in the old comfort of good ale and good friendship. 

All things considered…

Her night ends a little better than it began. 

If only their meeting with Alistair Theirin could go so smoothly...


End file.
